


Fight a Losing Battle

by starsmahogany



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Hijacked Peeta, Mockingjay, References to Depression, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 17:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16876911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsmahogany/pseuds/starsmahogany
Summary: While the rest of the Star Squad sleeps, Peeta is restless. The voices imposed by Tracker Jacker venom are still fresh in his mind, though he wants so terribly to fight them. As he wanders through the camp however, he finds the break in the fog he desperately wants, if only for a moment.A missing segment from Mockingjay in Peeta's POV. Originally published on Tumblr in 2014.





	Fight a Losing Battle

_“Mutt. Mutt. Mutt. Mutt.”_

The frightening chanting within my head ends abruptly as I jolt awake, encased in a thin layer of sweat.

I blink hard, slowly bringing myself back to reality. Or at least, as much as I can; the nightmares and horrible visions are still fresh in my mind. They lurk and contort into dark shapes before my eyes, and I clench my fists hard, willing them to go away.

I’m so tired. I’m exhausted with having to deal with these strange hallucinations, not knowing what’s real or not. Not knowing who’s lying to me and who’s telling me the truth. Not knowing if the people surrounding me are actually my friends or my fiends.

I feel like there used to be a time when it all made sense, when everything flowed together in a happy melody. I feel like there was once a time where I woke up, and was aware of everything around me. Not living in this constant state of confusion, aggression, and fear.

I feel like I actually had something worth living for.

But did I really, or is that just some, shiny memory trapped within my tainted brain? People have been telling me so many things. I’ve been told that I used to paint and bake, both of which I’ve attempted again since my supposed “hijacking;” anyone who deals with me uses that word.

It’s a new term to me, but just like everything else, I don’t question it. I simply try to fit it back into the confusing labyrinth that is the present. Hobbies and past times haven’t been so bad to adjust to, or hard to believe. The one, true thing that is bothering me the most, is who I love, allegedly.

_Katniss._

The very thought of her sends a chill down my spine, and my heart takes off within my chest. I have so many different words to describe her now that it’s almost unthinkable, most of which others have told me.

Friend. Lover. Ally. Mutt. Fiance. Mockingjay. Worthless. Beautiful. And above all, puzzling.

The wretched voices in my head are constantly screaming at me to kill her, but now that I’ve begun to clarify what’s real and what’s not, there’s something else. Something else that only baffles me more; affection. When the tracker jackers aren’t raging through my veins, I feel…like she means something to me. Something deep and extraordinary.

Normally, I see the deep creases on her forehead from her stress. Or her scowl as she interacts with the others, and the voices tell me she’s ruthless, and menacing. But occasionally, I experience something far different.

When she’s serene, and relaxed, my heart begins to flutter. A seemingly foreign warmth rushes up to my cheeks, though my instincts tell me that it’s not foreign at all. Instead, it’s something that I perhaps felt for the entirety of my life.

The wind whipping against my tent snaps me out of my deep thoughts. My head is beginning to ache from trying to process so many things at once, so I opt to get up and move around.

It must be late at night, because the moon is out, wrapping the land in a soft, silvery blanket. The air is crisp and semi-sweet, the scent of autumn leaves lingering on the breeze. And there is not a single soul out and about in the camp. It’s simply me.

I begin to walk slow circles around the area, trying my hardest to keep my tread soft to not wake the others. Surely they’ll think I’m up to something. As I pass by various tents, the sound of gentle breathing, or snoring, fills my ears. I find them very lucky to be able to sleep so soundly. It’s a privilege. But when I pass by one of the tents on the end, my ears are met with a distressed whimpering. It’s feminine, and all too familiar, and for some reason it triggers something deep inside of me.

A thousand memories surge in my mind. I see images of Katniss and the train flash before my eyes. I recall comforting her at night, easing the nightmares from her conscious. And for once, these images, oddly enough, are not associated with fear.  
  
It feels like something that just…comes naturally.  
  
And so before my body and mind can meld and contemplate the situation, I’m pushing myself through the flaps of the tent. Though it’s dark, I spy Katniss on the other side of the tent. Sure enough, she’s wrapped deep within the troughs of a nightmare, thrashing and letting out cries. And instead of wanting to kill her, I find myself wanting to the exact opposite; I want to help her. To come to her aid and ease her out of whatever pain she is enduring.  
  
I’m not sure why I’m able to tolerate her, here and now. Perhaps it’s because I have made a connection with her; I too, suffer from nightmares. Ones that are constantly plaguing my life now. And since I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone, I feel that she shouldn’t have to suffer either.  
  
Or perhaps it’s because she’s not conscious. Her words are not hanging in my brain. Her eyes aren’t digging through my skull. She’s not confusing me and mentally torturing me, so I’m able to properly focus on her. To see her for who she truly is and not who the star squad are melding her to be.  
  
I shut my eyes tightly, wrapping a mental finger around the memories and trying to recall how I helped her.  
  
_“Mutt. Always. Mutt. Always. Always. Always.”_  
  
The shiny memories are disappearing, becoming less evident within my mind. The terrible words are shifting into things that I haven’t thought in a long time.  
  
_“Mutt. Always. Beautiful. Love. Care. Always. Always.”_  
  
A particularly loud wail from Katniss snaps me back to full attention. Her face is contorted in pain, and her limbs are tangled up within the blankets.  
  
And what happens next causes my heart to clench, and my mouth to fall agape.  
  
“Peeta,” she whimpers, “Peeta.”  
  
She repeats my name over and over, growing more strained and desperate.  
  
She’s crying for me. Despite of how I’ve treated her. Despite how much I’ve hurt her. She’s desperate to get to me in whatever dream realm she’s enduring.  
  
So what happens next is pure reflex; I reach out and gently brush my fingers against her cheek.  
  
The second I make contact with her skin, I suck in a sharp, surprised breath. I brace myself for violent thoughts. I wait for my world to slow down, and for my vision to grow red. I acted out of impulse and now I’m going to pay the price for doing so; an episode will surely begin.  
  
And I am highly stunned when it doesn’t.  
  
This is the first time I’ve been able to touch her without some type of negative consequence. This is the first time I’ve been able to fight off the deadly thoughts within me.  
  
This may not happen again. I may not get another chance like this. Tomorrow I’m going to wake up and be plagued with the pain of monstrous visions, so I continue to take advantage of the situation. I have to make the most of it before it’s taken away from me.  
  
My fingers trail gently down her cheek, savoring the feeling of her smooth, soft skin. Down they journey, pausing over her sharp cheekbones and rubbing the area beneath her jaw.  
  
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I gently whisper, and I decide to tell her something she’s said to me countless times as of late, “Not real. It’s not real.”  
  
To my surprise and pure relief, her breathing becomes less labored. Her spasms become less pronounced. And gradually, she falls back into a more peaceful rest.

I smile a soft, saddened smile. I know there was once a time when I was able to bring her comfort like this; I experience those particular memories occasionally. I was able to be with her without having the constant impulse to kill her. My touch wasn’t used for destruction; it was used for warmth, much like now.

I suppose tonight was a step in the right direction. I finally won a battle against Snow. Some of my old feelings for Katniss seeped through, and I allowed them to without question.

Everyone has told me that I love her, including Katniss herself. And I had a hard time believing them, with Snow and his venomous tone telling me the opposite. But now that my mind is clear, and at the purest state it has been in lately, I’m finally put two and two together.

I do love her. And care about her immensely.

But she won’t know this night happened. Tomorrow, I’ll surely be in a different mindset yet again. But now I have more initiative to fight for the good memories; I know exactly what I’m fighting for.

As I continue to gaze over her now-tranquil face, the answer sticks out to me like a beacon. Her. I’m fighting for her. I’m going to be fighting Snow right along side of her. Just in a different way.

Katniss lets out a humming sigh in her sleep, signaling to me that she has come completely out of the darkness. My hand eases up from her cheek and into her soft, downy hair, my fingers gliding across it.

I want to touch her elsewhere. I want to slam my lips against hers and apologize for everything. I want to tell her how much I love her, while I’m free from the horrors of my mentality. 

But I also do not want to wake her, so I simply let my eyes trail across her body.

I stare at her eyes, her eyelids gently laid upon them and her eyelashes flutter slightly. I try to picture the smokey, grey shade of her irises, and appreciate their beauty.

My gaze then tracks down her nose, and to her supple, warm lips. I think back for a moment, and recall how wonderful it felt to kiss them. They were silky, delicate, and they held a certain glow to them.

I let out a shuddering sigh, cherishing her kisses as I continue to peer down her face.

My eyes slide down her chin and on to her neck. Her vulnerable, fragile neck. The place I tried to kill her.

I tense, my mind beginning to war slightly. My vision flashes with shades of black, and I can hear my own voice, strung with hatred and toxins.

_“Mutt. She’s a stinking mutt.”_

I grit my teeth, my fists and jaw clenching. Not now. I can’t disappear now. Not with Katniss so defenseless. Not when I had almost gone over the precipice of sanity.

I begin shuddering, desperately trying to claw my way back and away from the visions. I look for something, anything, to trigger a different type of emotion and prevent the episode from progressing.

I look at her lips, at her shut eyes, at her serene expression. I take in the way her skin is glowing from the moonlight that’s seeping through the tent’s opening. I picture the way she had been saying my name not too long ago.

And when my eyes flitter down to her neck again, the aggression stops, and is replaced immediately with guilt.

Peeking out from the cascading waves of brown hair, is an angry, large series of bruises.

They’re shaped just like fingers.

The terrifying voices seep out of my head as I continue to stare, swallowing hard and realizing just how much I truly hurt her. The one person I truly care about. The one person I would die for. I wounded her, both mentally and physically.

The doctors never told me the severity of my first episode. I know it was bad. I know I harmed her. But not like this.

Tears well up within my eyes; they come with pain, remorse, and sorrow. How am I expected to live with myself when I can’t be around the one person I love. When I can’t apologize to her. When I can’t be strong enough to fight back against the venom.

What if I hurt her again? What if I have an episode that’s so uncontrollable, and so violent, that I actually go through with Snow’s wish?

The very thought is enough to send the moisture pouring down my cheeks.

I hate myself. I hate what they’ve done to me. I hate what I’ve done to her.

I don’t know if I’m ever going to heal. Just a few minutes ago, I thought I was fine and in control; I was optimistic. But that changed in the blink of an eye. I’m unpredictable. I’m dangerous. And I can’t inflict pain upon her again. I just can’t.

So while I’m still clinging to my sanity, I brush the hair away from her collarbone, exposing her skin fully to me.

And before my mind can tell me otherwise, I press my lips softly to the bruises on her neck, feeling them tremble as tears continue to cascade down my face.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper against her, my voice broken and strained, “I’m so sorry.”

My heart is beginning to pound, and I can feel my self-control edging away, so I rip myself away from her, and stumble out of the tent.

I pause outside of the flaps, breathing heavily as I give myself time to cling to the fresh memories. She wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t a mutt. Tonight clarified that part of my brain is wrong. And that I have to fight for full control.

It may be difficult. It not even be possible. But I have got to try. She means something to me, despite what the voices tell me.

I’m not a monster. I’m not a slave of the Capitol. I am  _not_  a piece of their games. I never intended to be.

Not giving any attempt to brush away the tears rolling down my cheeks, I trudge back towards my own tent, knowing that I can do nothing but await with dread what the next day will offer.


End file.
